


Window Shopping

by maaaaa



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Kudos: 25





	Window Shopping

As Jim enters the loft, he closes the door with a gentle hip nudge. He listens for sounds of his partner, not Sentinel listening, but the same listening anyone might do upon returning home after a long day. He likes the feeling of normalcy this gives him. His keys are dropped into the basket; his jacket, cuffs, and holster are removed and hung on their peg. He hasn’t announced his presence, hasn’t bellowed out a greeting, because the loft is in its almost shut down for the night stillness. The light is on over the sink, the refrigerator hums and clicks, shadows crawl across the loft detailing the activity of the city backlit by streetlights, traffic, and the moon’s glow.

There is a light on in the room under the stairs. The room is Blair’s office now, well, Blair’s and Jim’s if the sentinel ever decides to brave the Sandburg debris field and make use of the comfortable retreat Blair has made it. Music...tribal drums and flutes…is playing softly, drifting out from behind the closed French doors. It is a sultry, hypnotic beat, not one of the usual frenzied melodies Blair prefers if he knows he’s alone and has a deadline to meet. And the light, Jim realizes now, is not bright, not a reading light. It is, in fact, a pale flickering orange, several flickerings, as a matter of fact, out of time with one another, out of sync with the music. Jim smells vanilla and jasmine and sandalwood, mingled yet distinct, at the same time it comes to him that the light emanating from the window to the room beneath the stairs is being generated by several candles.

The light bothers Jim for a moment, not the color or the jumpy aftereffect on his retinas, but the fact there is light intruding into the loft from that room at all. And then he remembers. The shade, the bargain basement slatted shade Blair doesn’t want replaced, is stuck. The slats are twisted to the open position and one side of the entire contraption is askew. The doo-hickey at the top broke the last time Blair tried to close it and he’d rebuffed Jim’s bid to play handyman, even when he’d offered to wear nothing but his tool belt.

Jim shakes his head, and doesn’t go there. It is one of Blair’s annoying, endearing eccentricities. He smiles, thin-lipped and self-satisfied; he’s worn the tool belt more than once anyway, when nothing needed fixing.

There is chanting now, along with the music, almost a lament, and Jim thought he’d recognized the tribal music but now he’s not sure. He’d thought it was an instrumental piece; he listens more closely to see if he knows the language, wondering if it’s new to Blair’s collection or if he’s just not as observant as he thinks.

Jim is surprised to note that the voice is not part of the recording; it is Blair’s voice. It overlays the thrumming and the whistling, it is raspy, rhythmic…not quite in time with the beat. And the chanting is really more of a plea, desperately throaty, tinged with frustration.

Sentinel listening takes over now, because Jim has taken backseat to the Blessed Protector as he crosses the room.

As Jim approaches the door and reaches for the knob, yet more sounds intrude on his senses, and he stops, his curled fingers just inches from the metal. He hears the sound of naked flesh sliding across old worn fabric, the second-hand sheets that have covered Blair’s futon for too many years and have seen too few washings for Jim’s liking. The flesh is kneading itself into the fabric, releasing the smell of cheap laundry detergent, spilled coffee, and trapped until now in the weave aftershave and deodorant. And there are more fleshy sounds, sounds of fingertips traipsing through chest hair, and gliding across soft belly-flesh, sounds of strong compact fingers tugging on tightened skin, sounds that conjure yet more odors.

And the odors are all Blair-centric, the swirling fragrance of Blair, lazy and sweaty too soon after showering, an ambrosial delight of arousal and unfulfilled lust blended with herbal body wash and spicy incense.

Jim’s cock spasms, a natural response to the images conjured, his flesh now heated, straining against soft cotton. The Sentinel backs off, but doesn’t quit the field, deferring to Jim’s next move. The window beckons, and Jim tries to recall the last time he’s peered into the small room through the smudged glass. It is only one step, two, in tiptoed stealth mode, and Jim is at the window, looking in.

The light inside the room, unhindered by the cockeyed shade, is melted to just before being burned butter-yellow, drizzled across Blair. The futon is righted into its faux-couch position, the old sheets thrown on and in crumpled disarray beneath Blair’s naked body. The candle flames waver, spluttering Blair with rippled shadows cast by the crooked shade. Blair’s left forearm is resting over his closed eyes, eyes scrunched in concentration, concentration synchronized with heavy breaths, clenched teeth, and steady deep-throated vocalizations. One leg, Blair’s right leg, is half on, half off the futon. His left leg has been flung upward, resting thigh against the couch back, calf along the top, his toes curled, his foot arched. Blair’s right hand encircles his cock, and glides up and down in an uncoordinated pumping, out of step, out of time, with the music and the steady flow of words, words Jim can hear now, as if they are being whispered directly into his ears.

“Yes, yes, yes, Jim, oh, oh gods, Jim, yes,” as Blair’s hand moves and his fingers tighten and relax and stray to his balls and strain to dip lower.

Jim’s cock is heavy now between his legs, pulsing in response to Blair’s voice. Jim watches, subdued excitement twitching in every nerve ending. He is aroused at the sight of Blair; Blair glazed in a sheen of amber perspiration, dappled with beads of sweat that glisten on slicked down curls and taut muscles.

“No, dammit, no, damn, Jiiii-im,” as Blair’s hand squeezes his cock hard in a reckless attempt to relieve the tension that is pulsating from every pore. His teeth are gritted, his lips, lips that should be full and luscious, obscured to tightly thinned lines of frustration.

And still, Jim doesn’t move. He watches, captivated, drenched in guilty pleasure, watches as Blair’s hand strokes and slides and glides and tugs.

“Jim,” whispered in silky resignation as Blair’s hand drops away from his cock, his cock still erect and tight, straining for a touch, Jim’s touch.

Jim slowly tears his eyes from the sight, reluctant to let go of the image, the sight of Blair, his Blair, unable, unwilling, to bring himself to completion. He sidesteps toward the door, his hands feeling their way along the short expanse of wall, feeling because Jim’s eyes are closed, trapping the image of Blair behind the closed lids. He opens the door soundlessly and slips into the room and then his eyes are open again, open and hungry as he moves toward Blair.

Jim straddles Blair, his right knee dropped onto the futon between Blair’s legs, against Blair’s rigid cock, nudging Blair’s tight balls. At the same time Jim grabs Blair’s right hand, grabs it and maneuvers it up and over Blair’s head. He traps both of Blair’s hands in one of his, and pushes them both behind Blair’s head.

Blair’s eyes pop open, surprised and delighted, and he sighs, warm breath suffused with the aftertastes of the day, puffed out against Jim’s chin. He begins to whisper, “Ji---,” a plea, a hope, a demand, but Jim shushes him with a long drawn out “shhhhhhhhhhhh,” as his lips descend. Jim kisses Blair, and his free hand sneaks downward, and the kiss turns into words, purred against Blair’s lips, “Let me take care of that,” as Blair’s cock, warm and hard, taps against Jim’s abdomen.

“Don’t move your hands,” snarled in a soft gasp, and as soon as he lets go, Blair reaches out and touches Jim, fingertips tracing the firm jaw, ghosting over hot lips, little scrabbling motions tickling Jim’s ear. Iron-fisted words, velvet soft, with a hint of lusty humor, “If you move your hands again, I’ll spank you,” as Blair’s hands are lassoed within Jim’s grasp, pushed once again to the top of his head, lashed to each other by Jim’s guidance. Jim takes a moment to regret removing his cuffs from his belt and hanging them on the peg by the front door. Jim’s eyes reinforce his words and Blair’s cock jumps and drills a tappity-tap-tap hammering against Jim’s belly.

Jim’s knee pushes against Blair, grinding denim against flesh as he works his hands down across Blair’s chest, down along soft belly-flesh, retracing the path Blair’s fingers made just minutes earlier. He slowly reconnoiters the familiar skin, Blair’s wiry hair and tiny blemishes, the never quite healed navel-piercing scar he’s never told Jim about.

Blair is squirming under Jim’s touches, bucking awkwardly, hissing “Jim, yeah, oh, oh,” to the ceiling, eyelids fluttering open and shut. His hands lose the half-hearted battle to stay put and Blair covers his eyes with one hand and grabs Jim’s shoulder with the other, fingernails digging into Jim’s flesh, fingertips pushing and rubbing, eagerly touching.

Jim at last runs the palm of his hand up the length of Blair’s shaft. Blair’s skin is hot, and smooth, and his cock is barely pulsating, ready to burst. Jim’s fingers curl around it, encasing it, and he tightens his grip.

Blair comes, he comes as Jim’s fist glides down, Jim’s firm grasp pumps him once and Jim’s fingers caress his sac and tease his opening in one loving swoop. Blair comes and sighs and relaxes under Jim’s lingering touches.

Jim leans back, leans his butt onto his heel, his leg folded under him. He watches Blair again, and can’t decide if he likes looking at Blair like this, Blair sated and melted, tension drained from the lax body, or if he likes watching Blair clandestinely, Blair tense with lust, Blair frustrated and horny and hot, from the other side of the window.

It doesn’t matter, Jim thinks, as he tugs Blair upward, hugging him. He lets Blair wrap his arms around him, and they snuggle, Blair’s face in Jim’s chest, Jim’s nose in Blair’s hair.

It doesn’t matter, Jim reassures himself as he seats himself, pulling Blair, Blair protesting weakly with a laugh, across his knees for the promised spanking.

It doesn’t matter, Jim thinks with a smirk as he lands the first swat on Blair’s ass, as he rubs the swatted flesh and swats it again, swats a little harder, as he spanks Blair’s ass long and hard. Jim swats and rubs and teases until his cock is more than ready.

It doesn’t matter, Jim knows, as he flips Blair over and pushes him into the sheets, chest down and ass up. He kneels behind Blair, crawls onto the futon behind Blair and pulls his cock from his pants and slides into Blair.

Jim glances up at the window, and he smiles and hums as he rocks back and forth, as he eyes the window with a smug grin, as he looks at the window with the cockeyed shade…the shade that will most probably never be fixed.


End file.
